


it's etiquette, you idiot

by spock



Category: Olympics RPF, Snowboarding RPF
Genre: 2014 Winter Olympics, Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Coming Out, Idiots in Love, M/M, Mail order husband, Roughhousing, Schmoop, Trope Inversion, World Snowboard Tour
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-09
Updated: 2014-07-09
Packaged: 2018-02-07 09:01:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,323
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1893135
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spock/pseuds/spock
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sage maybe should've taken the time to google his husband's name.</p>
            </blockquote>





	it's etiquette, you idiot

**Author's Note:**

  * For [vettel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/vettel/gifts).



Sage stops fourteen people on his way to his husband's apartment, double-checking to make sure that he's got the pronunciation of his name correct. Only six of them speak English, but Sage has never been the type to let something like a language barrier get between him and what he wants. By the twelfth person he's relatively sure that he's got it down pat. He asks two more people anyway, because they're there and it doesn't hurt to keep practicing. For the most part he's stalling, delaying the inevitable, wanting to calm his nerves before it's time to face the music. He's never been nervous type in his entire life. He's nervous now. 

When he finally gets his shit together and finds his way to the address the agency provided for him, the doorman at his husband's apartment complex is hesitant to let him in, which is fair. Sage knows that he looks like a drifter at best, homeless at worst. He pulls out his passport — freshly minted, the ink from Norway's stamp still slightly wet; the name Sandbech proudly listed next to his own, and Sage would've liked to have flown to Oslo as soon as their marriage license went through, but he had to spend nearly three hundred dollars to get a passport printed, expedited, overnighted, all with his equally new hybrid last name — to prove that he is who he says he is. The doorman still looks skeptical, but if there is part Sage has always played well, it's that of the lovable dumb blond, and he's charmed the doorman before he even knows what hit him. 

His nerves kick into overdrive on the elevator ride up to the fifth floor, each number reflecting his increasing anxiety level as they roll past. Stepping out from between the elevator doors and walking down to 5B feels like a death march. Sage suddenly feels hot, _beyond_ hot, has to take off his beanie so that his brain can air itself out. A whole life spent as an adrenaline junkie and now that he's on the edge of this cliff, the one that marks the start of the rest of his life, he's hesitant to jump off. 

Thinking about it like that, like any other ramp, just another hurdle that he needs to get past so that he can pick up speed and take on the next one, it helps Sage calm down. He remembers how excited he is. His husband's going to be his perfect match; Sage hasn't even met him yet and he already kinda feels like he loves him. They're going to be so great together. He's totally ready for this. It's gonna be awesome.

Sage knocks on the door. And knocks. And knocks some more. After five minutes — with his ear pressed tight to the woodgrain of the door, listening like he's trying to crack a goddamn safe, making sure that his husband isn't, like, pretending not to be home because he caught sight of Sage through the peephole and wasn't happy with what what came knock, knock, knocking at his chamber door — Sage figures that he must not be home. It's a work day, in the middle of the afternoon, so it makes sense that he'd be at work, doing whatever it is that he does. Still, it's a slight let down after all the build up he's had. Sage gave himself a totally decent pep talk and now it's basically gone to waste. Bummer.

Without the rush of the unknown coursing through his veins, Sage realizes that the air conditioning in the hallway is pretty fucking intense. He pulls his beanie back on and drops bags onto the floor, sitting himself down on the one that has all his clothes.

↓

Sage is listening to music when his husband finally gets home. He's got his big, noise-canceling headphones on so he doesn't hear with the elevator dings, when its doors open. It would have been really romantic to watch his husband appear through sweeping doors, but some things just aren't meant to be. It's the floor vibrating that lets him know somebody is walking nearby, and when Sage looks up, there his husband is, a few feet away, staring at Sage curiously.

He realizes for the first time that his husband might not speak English. Sage has never claimed to be the best — or even remotely close to mediocre — at thinking things through. 

"Hey," he greets, just in case Sage and his husband do share a language. Sage jumps up and decides to just go for it, walking up and giving the biggest hug he can manage. A good hug can work magic — it can make people like you, and trust you, and want to be around you, all three of which Sage really, really wants his husband to feel towards him. Psycho murderers probably suck ass at giving hugs. If they were even remotely good at them then they probably wouldn't feel so lonely and angry, probably wouldn't be capable of murdering people in the first place, Sage figures. He's not a psycho, and he has the hugs to prove it. 

His husband hugs him back, just as tight. He's a really good hugger too. It makes Sage happy, because he's really into hugs, and touching in general, and his husband being skilled and open to them means good things for their compatibility. 

They pull apart and Sage gets his first real look at his husbands face. He's handsome, and he's got long, blond hair, and he's smiling at Sage, bemused and like he has no idea what's going on, but he's willing to go along to figure it out. Up until this point, in Sage's mind, he's always just been _my husband_. Now that Sage has finally seen him, felt him, he's a real human being all of a sudden, and his actually has value beyond the abstract. He's Ståle. Sage's Ståle, just like he's Ståle's Sage.

"So, I'm Sage," he says finally, after they've been staring at one another for a while. Their faces are super close and Sage really wants Ståle to kiss him. Or he can kiss Ståle, Sage isn't all that picky when it comes to who-does-what, so long as it ends with kissing. 

"I'm your mail-order husband! You may kiss the groom, or whatever." Sage trails off at the end, feeling sort of dumb, and transparent. He really hopes that Ståle speaks English, but at the same time maybe it would save them both some grief if they're forced to communicate totally through head gestures and pantomimes. 

It doesn't hurt to go all out, though.

Sage closes his eyes and tilts his head back a bit. He and Ståle are the same height, so kissing should be pretty easy. He stays like that, feeling like an idiot but also really impatient — he wants Ståle to kiss him or shove him away, anything as long as it's an action. Kissing would be the most preferable option. Sage grunts out a small, frustrated noise, presses himself forward so that their bodies rock a little bit because of the way that their chests are pressed so close together. He's careful to keep his face from getting any closer to Ståle's, no matter how much he wants to kiss his husband, he doesn't want to force the guy into anything.

Ståle proves himself to be a good sport, if nothing else. Sage feels a pair of lips press against his own; they keep it closed mouthed, simple. It's really, really nice.

↓

"You didn't even google me?" Ståle calls from the kitchen. He's fixing dinner for the two of them, even though he has to be gassed from hitting the slopes all day. Sage is totally and completely in love with him.

"I didn't even think to do it," Sage laughs. "I'm sorta a spazz. And a ditz? You totally lucked out marrying me, bro." He wants to tack on _no take-backs!_ but he doesn't even want to joke about that. There's a part of him that's just waiting for Ståle to realize that he's just a dumb kid with a diploma from an online high school, someone who had no idea what to do with himself after his knee blew out at fourteen and took his pro snowboarding dreams with it. This is the first time he's ever left the country, he's flying completely blind and by the seat of his pants, and he has no idea what he's supposed to do with his life if his marriage falls through.

Sage keeps his mouth shut and gets back to rifling through his bags, refolding clothes and setting them into piles: shirts, pants, underwear, some warmer weather stuff that he'll probably have no use for. It's early August and Oslo is barely pushing 80° at the hottest peak of the day, otherwise providing a constant stream of light rain with overcast to go along with it. In addition to his lack of googling, he didn't bother to check the weather before he packed either.

"You seem okay," Ståle jokes, carrying in a couple plates of food and setting them on the coffee table. "All right, how much junk did you bring?"

"It's not junk!" Sage insists. 

Ståle shoots him a look. Sage doesn't know what it means, but he's excited to figure it out. Maybe one day they'll have so many looks to share between them that they won't even have to speak. "Anyway," Ståle drones out, "Stop that and eat."

Ståle asks him a lot of questions between bites of their food. Where he's from, how old he is, what his family is like. Sage tells him everything, talks about growing up in Park City, his brothers and sister, being homeschooled. He carefully skirts the topic of why he doesn't board anymore but Ståle seems to read him well enough to not even ask about it, hint at it, not even when Sage talks about riding in the US Open back when he was twelve and thought he had thought that the rest of his life going forward would be nothing but snowboarding, just like he'd always dreamed.

"What do you even do, anyway?" Sage asks once they're finished eating, standing shoulder-to-shoulder in front of the sink so that Ståle can dry their plates while Sage washes them. "You know a lot about boarding, are you a PT or something?"

Ståle drops the plate he'd been drying on the counter, the loud _clang_ making Sage jump about a foot in the air, scaring the bajeebus out of him. Sage reaches up to clutch at his heart through the fabric of his shirt, soaking it with his still-wet hands. 

"Are you fucking with me," Ståle demands, snapping the towel he'd been using to dry against Sage's shoulder. "You have to be kidding. I was at the last Olympics!" 

"I'm sorry?" Sage feels like such an idiot, he hasn't even been around his husband for one full day yet and he's already pissed him off. "I, um — after like, 2009, I did my best to completely ignore the scene, and that carried over to me blocking out just about everything in Vancouver. And, um—," Sage stalls because Ståle looks unimpressed, even if he did shoot Sage a sad look when he mentioned not following the sport anymore. "I told you I didn't Google you! How was I supposed to know?"

Ståle gets him in a headlock, wrestles him down to the floor with one hand cupped around the back of Sage's head so that he doesn't brain himself on the wood floor. He plants himself on Sage's stomach and slips his hands up the sides of Sage's shit, running his fingertips up Sage's flank. 

"Yeah, but I thought you meant it in a, like, ' _Oh, I thought Ståle Sandbech was a common name in Norway! I didn't know my husband was **the** Ståle Sandbech_ '-way!" Ståle's impression of him is just about dead-on, far too good for someone who'd only met Sage a few hours ago. It would have Sage laughing even if Ståle wasn't currently being tickled within an inch of his life. "I didn't know you meant you had no idea I even existed, you dick!"

"I'm sorry!" Sage laughs. He grabs at Ståle's hands, pulling them out from under his shirt and pressing them tight to his chest. Sage's heartbeat is racing, he wonders if Ståle can feel it. Ståle stares down at him, frowning, but he doesn't fight Sage's grip on his wrists.

"At least you know that I didn't marry you for your fame or money," Sage wheedles. "Or your medals! Wait, did you even medal?"

Ståle lets out a growl, it bubbles its way up deep from the back of his throat as he breaks one of his hands free from Sage's grip and grabs at Sage's left nipple through his shirt, pinching it hard. Sage gasps, his chest rearing upwards, body unsure if moving towards the pain will lessen it, maybe make it worse. Sage isn't sure which he would prefer. He can feel his dick twitch, is grateful that Ståle is sitting on his lower belly and not within the cradle of his lap. 

When Ståle lets go Sage melts into the floor, heart rate ramping up again. He feels overheated, face sweaty and hot enough in certain areas that he knows that he's got a blotchy blush spread across his cheeks and forehead. 

Ståle stands up off him and doesn't seem freaked out or anything, so he must not have noticed how — _affected_ Sage had gotten. Sage is so, so grateful. He doesn't want to make things weird between them, husband or no, not on their first day. Everything feels too fragile, like one wrong move will send it all crashing down.

"Finish up the dishes, rasshøl. I'm going to start moving your stuff into the bedroom." Sage nods, dazedly, and pulls himself off the floor. He carefully adjusts himself in his pants, dick still soft, but he's worried that misplaced touch might change it's mind.

↓

"What're you doing?"

Sage is still damp from his shower, tucked into bed with a towel spread across his pillow so that his mostly-wet hair doesn't drench it too much. It's pretty obvious what he's doing, but Sage answers Ståle's question anyway, just to prove that he's a good sport. "Um, getting ready for bed."

"This is the guest bedroom," Ståle sounds unimpressed. Sage looks at him like, _So?_ , and Ståle continues on with, "So it's meant for guests, what the hell are you doing? Get up and come to bed."

"I'm not staying in here?" Sage asks. He meant to think it more than speak it, but now that it's out there he can't exactly take it back.

"Um, no?" Ståle sounds like he's come to the conclusion that Sage is stupid, which makes sense, because Sage knows he can be stupid about most things, most of the time. "You're staying in the bedroom with me. Where I put all your stuff. Didn't you notice that none of your clothes and stuff was in here?"

Sage did notice that, but he hadn't thought too much into it. That seems like a mistake, in retrospect. He starts scrambling to come up with a reason for why he didn't clue in sooner, but Ståle cuts him off.

"What did you even put on after you got out of the shower? Did Frode leave clothes behind?" Ståle narrows his eyes. "Wait, are you fucking naked under there?"

"Um," Sage says, which is apparently enough to confirm his guilt.

"Herregud," Ståle groans. His face is bright red as he brings a hand up to cover his eyes. "Get your ass up and come to bed, loser."

Sage scrambles to sit up and do as he's told. He quickly tries to make up the bed so it looks like it did when he first climbed in, but gives up on it, knowing a lost cause when he sees one. He grabs his towel from the pillow and uses it to shield his dick. The thought of Ståle seeing it would normally be enough to get him hard, but he's too embarrassed for the blood in his body to flow anywhere but up towards his face. Ståle's standing in the doorway, hand still cupped over his eyes, unmoving. When Sage is a foot away from him, Ståle reaches out and blindly grabs for his hand, slotting their fingers together. He turns, finally dropping the hand from his eyes, leading Sage back towards the main bedroom by their linked fingers.

Ståle lets go once they're inside, walking towards a dresser and pulling out a pair of underwear, shorts, a thin athletic top; tossing them all over his shoulder in Sage's direction without ever looking back to see if his aim was right. Sage scrambles to catch them, wrapping the shirt and shorts around his neck as he steps into the underwear. They're not his brand, which means they're Ståle's, but Sage doesn't want to point that out. 

Once he's got the drawstring of the shorts tied and the shirt pulled down over his chest, he catches sight of Ståle, half-naked as he pulls off his own top and steps into his sleep pants. It doesn't look as if he plans on sleeping in a shirt, the thought making Sage's heart race yet again, makes heat pool in his groin, where his dick is tucked away inside of Ståle's underwear, jesus. 

Sage rushes over to the bed before he can make a fool of himself, asking, "Which side do you like to sleep on?", before he slides himself into the right side, furthest from the door but nearest to the window. He watches as Ståle leaves the room, hears him double check the locks in the front room, sees the apartment become darker and darker as he turns off the lights.

He turns on his side, facing Ståle as he climbs into bed beside him, takes the bottle of water Ståle hands him and reaches behind himself to blindly it on side table. It feels slightly awkward to be watching Ståle like this, but, it's just — a day ago Sage had been in Utah, eating dinner with his family and saying his goodbyes. Now he's in Norway, lying in bed with his husband — _his husband_ — watching him punch his pillow into submission. 

Ståle flops down onto his pillow and then rolls so that he's looking at Sage too. They sort of just stare at one another until Sage can't take it anymore and asks, "So why did you seem so shocked when you first saw me?"

It's something he doesn't really want or need the answer to, not really, but the question has been niggling itself around the back of his mind since Ståle pulled back from their kiss and let Sage into his house, no real questions asked.

"I wasn't expecting you," Ståle says, and Sage feels a moment of real terror, because, _what_? His panic must be written across his face because Ståle hastens to add, "No, like, I knew you _existed_ , not you, specifically, but like, the-husband-you? I just thought we'd talk online first and get to know each other before it was official or something. Frode — um, my brother, he's the one who told me about the agency site thing, and I filled out the questions and took the tests and signed the papers and stuff, but he did the rest."

Mid-way through Ståle's speech has Sage feeling better, because it's not like someone signed Ståle up as a joke, and obviously they're still a good match, because all the important personality-based stuff was filled out by Ståle himself, but by the end Sage is slightly mortified and completely embarrassed, because his first thought once he got Ståle's information was to pack up his shit and leave, not to reach out to him and introduce himself. 

"It's cool that you did, though. In a couple of weeks I've gotta go Australia for High Fives so it would've been hard for me to focus on that and talking to you and stuff. This way you can come with me and — shit, remind me to call my manager and have him book you a ticket."

Sage nods, feeling overwhelmed. He's — going to be a tour husband. Ståle's going to travel all over the place to compete and Sage is free to trail along after him. Up until their conversation in the kitchen a few hours ago, Sage pointedly hadn't thought or spoken about snowboarding in over four years. Suddenly it's looking like his life is going to become all about it again. He's excited and completely terrified all at once. Sage wonders if he might actually feint from the anxiety it's giving him.

Ståle yawns, mouth spread wide and jesus, Ståle has a huge mouth and Sage has a dirty mind that obviously hates him, wants to embarrass him. He isn't freaking out about boarding anymore, that's for sure. The relief Sage's inappropriate arousal brings is enough to make Sage want to kiss Ståle in thanks, even if he's the reason Sage had been freaking out and needed a distraction in the first place.

"I'm dead, dude." Ståle says, eyes slipping closed. "Get some sleep and then tomorrow I'll take you to meet my parents, yeah?"

Sage nods again as Ståle rolls over to turn his bedside lamp off, throwing the room into darkness, shadows painting the walls as a slight sliver of light peeks out from cracks in the curtains. He doesn't roll back over, so Sage stares at Ståle's back as he waits for sleep to descend on him.

* * *

Ståle's parents are really nice, and his brother is sort of hilarious. Sage takes to them right away. Frode's the only one who can speak English fluently, but that doesn't hamper the evening at all. Ståle's parents sort of — _coo_ over him, his father keeping an arm swung over Sage's shoulders from the time he walks through the door until he walks back out of it, only letting go when they're eating. Mrs. Sandbech drags him to a specific seat at the dining room table, and at first Sage thinks it's so that he can be positioned directly across from Ståle, but really it's so she can have him sitting next to her, where she proceeds to spend the entire meal sliding extra food onto his plate and fussing with his hair.

Once they're done eating they retire into the family room; as the meal had been wrapping up, both of the elder Sandbech's have backed off a little, smiling and saying that he's _not so shiny_ anymore, that he's old news. Sage returns their grins back to them, his stomach warm from more than just the food, glad to have acclimated himself so quickly to this family — his family, now. 

Sage goes to sit on the couch next to Mr. Sandbech but Ståle thwarts that plan, instead bullies Sage so that he's sitting on the floor between Ståle's legs as Ståle steals his spot on the couch.

Frode follows after them then, fancy DSLR in his hands. Sage gets distracted from whatever Frode's doing by the sudden feeling of Ståle running his hands through his hair, finger combing it a couple times before he sets to work on braiding the bits that had been falling into his eyes during dinner back from his face. It feels really nice, Sage slumps so that he's leaning against Ståle's leg, his cheek pillowed against Ståle's thigh, the fabric of his jeans catching slighting on the five o'clock shadow he's developed. He's full, the combination of that and the warmth seeping into his body from Ståle's own leaves him feeling sleepy, the nervousness that had been gripping his body on the ride over feeling like a distant memory, a fever dream.

A mechanical click whirrs and Sage turns to look at Frode; he's crouched in front of them, lower than Sage, pointing his camera up at them. 

"Newlywed photos," Frode supplies, crowding close with the lens of his camera poised at Ståle's fingers. Ståle swats at him, one finger pressed tight to Sage's scalp, keeping his latest, half-finished braid in place so it doesn't unravel while Ståle sets about attacking his brother.

Ståle's parents ignore them, keeping up a conversation between the two of them, not even so much as glancing their way. 

"Grab meg en haarspeld," Ståle demands at his brother. Sage tips his head back, looking at Ståle from upside down, a crease between his eyebrows. "Hairpin," Ståle translates for him, scratching at the side of Sage's cheek with the hand that isn't holding the braids in place. Sage closes his eyes and allows himself to bask in it.

Frode sighs and sets his camera down, grumbling over his shoulder at them as he makes the short trip into the guest bathroom, coming back with a few bobby pins clutched between his fingers. He hands them to Ståle one by one, helps hold Sage's hair in place while Ståle gets the pins the way he links them.

"Very handsome," Frode decides, grabbing his camera and taking a few more photographs. Sage knows that he's a professional photographer, wonders if his hair will wind up on Frode's blog or instagram or something. 

"Looks nice!" Ståle's mother praises, smiling at both of him. Her husband nods and contributes, "Easier to see nice face," which does nothing besides make Sage blush. Ståle's father smirks at him, obviously proud of himself for embarrassing Sage.

"Usually I wear a beanie to keep it out of my face," Sage tries to explain. His hair is less of a haircut and more of its own entity, using Sage's body for food and shelter. He learned a long time ago not to rock the boat with it, so usually he just shoves it under a hat and tries not to think about it any more than he needs to. Still, there was no way in hell he would be able to meet his in-laws with a stupid beanie on his head, even Sage knew better than that. After his shower he'd brushed his hair out and hoped for the best, but his lack of haircut and styling meant that it kept falling into his eyes and finding ways to slip into his mouth. 

"Beanie?" Ståle's father asks uncertainly, turning to look at Ståle.

"Tuque," Ståle explains, causing both of his parents to groan out a long, " _No_ ," at the same time, looking at Sage as if he's betrayed them. They shake their heads and rise from their seats slowly, looking a million years old as they slowly walk back into the kitchen, mumbling something about coffee. Frode cackles in their wake.

"You crushed their dreams man, so brutal," Frode says. "They were hoping to have one boy who doesn't dress like a 'hobo'," Frode wrinkles his nose and does air-quotes as he speaks, rolling his eyes, "They'll just have to be happy with Nina. Speaking of—," Frode cuts himself off, stepping away from where he'd been sitting on the side of the couch at Ståle's elbow. "I told her I would take cute photos since she couldn't be here to meet you, Sage. Get up on the couch and look in love."

Sage hefts himself next to Ståle, sitting close enough that their thighs are pressed together. Looking like he's in love with Ståle won't be a problem, that's for sure. Ståle grabs his hand and links their fingers, resting them on his thigh. 

Frode has them pose about ten different ways: their heads bent together, staring into one anothers eyes; sticking their tongues out at each other; when Frode tells them to kiss, Ståle tells him to fuck off, but Sage is more than fine with that plan. He ducks his head and bites at Ståle's chin a few times, smiling and kissing the side of Ståle's mouth before finally fitting their lips together. Frode whistles like the asshole he apparently is, but he keeps his camera up and takes about a dozen pictures. Once they pull apart Ståle catches him unaware, takes a big, playful bite out of Sage's cheek. 

Frode snaps a photo of that too.

* * *

Ståle absolutely fucking kills at High Fives. He tries to shrug off Sage's praise, claiming that coming in third isn't all that impressive, but Sage doesn't buy that for a second. Sage stood right front row and center at Ståle's events, cheering his goddamn head off. It was exciting and amazing and Sage is so, so proud, and he damn sure wants Ståle to know it.

Sage is still reeling from the way Ståle had been showing him off to his friends on the tour. A couple of the guys Sage half-knew during his short-lived career remember him after a bit of deep thinking, but for the most part it's just Ståle introducing Sage as his husband. He gets to meet Ståle's friends: Mark, Sven, Mikkel, Aleks, Ulrik, and a bunch of other names he doesn't even try to remember. Everyone's really nice to him, but they don't treat him weirdly, like he's different just because he's gay — which makes sense, because they're still friends with Ståle — or because he's not competing. 

There's an unofficial after party once things wrap up on Saturday, the guest of honor being this huge bag of weed some of the Finnish kids snuck in, but Ståle begs out of it on both of their behalves, claiming that he's tired and a newlywed, besides. All his friends hoot and holler at them, and Sage makes sure to shoot his dirtiest smirk their way. Ståle and he are working up to actual sex, have mostly been making out, but Ståle's friends don't need to know that.

Ståle goes to take a shower the moment they're back in their hotel room, Sage trailing after him into the bathroom, sitting on the counter and talking to Ståle as he strips and climbs into the stall. 

Since the moment they got off the plane, Sage has been, well, trailing after Ståle as much as he can. He feels out of place, no real purpose to being in Australia other than to keep Ståle company. One of the things they matched on was their loneliness, their desire to rid it from their lives. Ståle's profile had said that he wanted someone who would stick around without him ever having to ask, and Sage feels the exact same way, understands the feeling of wanting to be special to someone, of wanting that person around all the time without feeling like a burden for demanding that of them. Ståle keeps telling him that he's free to explore the city, no reason for Sage to stick around during the boring downtime just because Ståle has to. Sage keeps telling him no, scooting closer, trails after him faster.

Ståle shuts of the water and climbs out from the shower, dripping all over the bathroom floor as he walks to stand before Sage, neither of them saying anything. Sage means to keep his eyes on Ståle's the entire time, but they wind up willfully settling somewhere around Ståle's chest, Sage doing everything he can to not let them focus below Ståle's waist. 

There's a pair of towels left on the counter beside him and Sage grabs one, tossing it over Ståle's head so that his face is covered. While Ståle works on drying his hair, Sage grabs the second towel and starts rubbing at Ståle's arms, chest, drying him off. Ståle steps closer to him, forcing Sage to spread his legs wider as Ståle crowds into him, enabling Sage to be able to reach around his body and dry Ståle's back, his ass, the tops of his thighs. 

"You didn't get the front," Ståle says under his breath. The way he's got the towel draped around his head makes it look like a hood, his face cast in its shadow, the harsh florescent light above them making his face look even more gaunt than it actually is, makes him look otherworldly. 

"I did," Sage insists. 

Ståle shakes his head, murmurs his disagreement as he leans in, sucking Sage's bottom lip into his mouth, kissing him. Ståle raises his hand to cup Sage's cheek, framing his face and angling Sage's head to his pleasure, throughly devouring Sage's mouth.

"I'm dry enough now," Ståle speaks into Sage's mouth, lips brushing against Sage's as he gives voice to each word, little kisses in their own right. It's a lie, his calves are still dripping down onto the tile, but Sage isn't going to call him out on it. "Let's go lay down." He smiles when Sage nods; Sage's head feels thick, floating through the sensory overload of the shower's muggy steam, the clean scent of Ståle's skin, the taste of Ståle's mouth.

Sage allows himself to be led towards the bed, Ståle's hand clutched tight in his own. He lets himself be pushed back into the mattress, feels Ståle spread himself overtop of him. He's so turned on, from the kissing, from how Ståle looks spread out on top of him, completely naked, skin still slick and too-warm from the water. Sage still has all his clothes on, but he feels equally as exposed, if not more.

Ståle sits up, settling himself onto Sage's stomach. Sage is reminded of that first night in the kitchen, when he was praying for Ståle not to lean back and discover his arousal; it's been little more than a week since then and now he's here with Ståle towering over him, rolling his hips as he grinds his dick into the fabric of Sage's shirt, keeping their eyes locked the entire time. Sage feels like he's going to pass out. He wishes that he and Ståle took up those Finnish kids up on their offer, blazed up before they came back the hotel. At least that way he'd feel less overwhelmed, even if his head would feel just as fuzzy, heady.

"Ståle," Sage pants. "Ståle, help me get naked."

Ståle takes his time with it. Works off each layer with focused precision, a degree of patience that Sage can't ever imagine exhibiting. They're the same age and Sage has always felt on equal footing with Ståle, even though Ståle's seen more things and has made more money off sponsors — let alone actual prizes from his winnings — than Sage could ever hope to earn with his high school diploma. Ståle's never made him feel lesser, not once, but in this Sage feels all of his eighteen years. He's only ever been with one other guy, he and his best friend losing their virginities together at fifteen. Sage wonders how many men Ståle might have been with, if he's going to find Sage lacking in some way because of it.

"Ståle, um—," he fumbles with his words, wondering if this is an okay thing to ask, if he's being rude. "Um, I've only been with one other dude and — uh. Are you in the same boat, or?" He feels like an idiot, his face flushing redder than it'd already been. Ståle looks up at him like a deer in headlights. He's finally gotten Sage completely naked, is in the middle of tugging off Sage's socks. 

"Uh," Ståle says, clearly wracking his brain to remember what Sage asked. Sage really hopes that he doesn't have to repeat himself, isn't sure that he'd actually be able to. "People I have sex with? Two, both at Olympics." 

" _Two_?!" Sage feels like his eyes are going to pop out of his head.

"Not at the same time!" Ståle stresses, his own cheeks pinking up. "Petter and Mats. They were, uh, a skier and a hockey player. Is that all right?" 

Sage nods, reaching his arms out towards Ståle and making grabby hands. Ståle comes to him, tosses Sage's socks over his shoulder and presses himself down onto Sage's chest, finally skin to skin. He feels better just having heard Ståle talk, hearing the way he struggled to form his sentences, to speak in English, how obvious is was that he's just as affected by Sage as Sage feels by him. He starts to feel that easy equilibrium bubble back up between them, making everything seem less scary. Sage kisses him, grabbing fistfuls of Ståle's hair because he's learned by now that doing so drives Ståle absolutly fucking crazy.

"Hey," Ståle pulls back from their kiss, rubbing his nose against Sage's playfully, wiggling his eyebrows. Sage rubs his nose right back. "What's your stance?"

"What?" Sage asks distractedly, licking his lips as he stares at Ståle's while he speaks. "Um, goofy?"

"Me too." Ståle's grinning at him, his _you're-dumb-and-I-love-it_ smile. Sage frowns at him, affronted. Ståle's laugh just makes him frown that much harder. "But that's not what I meant." He rolls his hips, fits a hand around Sage's knee and pulls it up so that Sage's thigh is pressed tight to Ståle's hip.

Sage flushes. "Oh, um. Fakie." Ståle's grin widens.

"Me too."

↓

"Fuck. Fuck, Ståle," Sage moans. He turns his face into his shoulder, stares sightlessly at where his knee rests up by his ear, bent in half as he is. Ståle's turned a lack of rhythm into its own type of special pattern, rolling himself into Sage's body, making it so that their lower bodies are never more than a centimeters breadth apart at any given time. "Ståle — Ståle, I like you so much," he stutters out.

"I like you too," Ståle grunts. He dips down and licks at the skin of Sage's neck, the long drag of his tongue punctuated by a particularly long grind, the head of his cock pressing against Sage's prostate, making his vision white out around the edges. "Sage, shit, I like you. I like fucking you. Can't wait for you to fuck _me_. Sage, Sage," Ståle continues on like that, chanting Sage's name right into his fucking ear, both of his hands groping, fisting, tugging, _squeezing_ Sage's cock, working him over as Ståle ruts himself into Sage's body. It's too much — sound, scent, touch, taste all assailing Sage at once. He comes silently, too overcome to force sound from his vocal cords. He's distantly aware of his muscles seizing up, trembling in the aftermath of his orgasm.

Ståle keeps going, lets go of Sage's spent dick so that he can grab hold of his shoulders, pulling Sage's downwards as he continues to grind, working his way even deeper into Sage's body, something Sage hadn't even thought possible. He reclaims his voice, starts chanting Ståle's name, giving him a taste of his own medicine. Sage yanks at Ståle's hair, pulling his head back from where it'd been buried in Sage's shoulder so that they can stare at one another, pushing Ståle's hair back from his face so that he can really see his eyes. Ståle comes then, deep in Sage's body.

* * *

Mountain Championships happen in the middle of December and Ståle places third. Sage rubs at his shoulders after each practice run, sucks him off each night in their hotel, trying to help him work out some of his aggression. Ståle tries to talk Sage into fucking him, but Sage knows better, won't let Ståle screw himself over just for a quick fix of relief.

Even when disappointed in himself, Ståle is graceful in his loss. He hugs Mark tightly in celebration of his win, congratulating him for coming in first. Sage takes pictures of them while they do it, planning on posting them to Ståle's instagram later that night. Frode's been giving him photography tips, recommending editing apps to try out on his phone and computer; it's fun and at first it was just something for Sage to do while they're on tour, but lately he's found himself really getting into it.

"You ready to go?" Ståle asks him. 

"Booooo," Mark heckles. The rest of the guys join in, shaking their heads at Sage and Ståle, calling them pathetic newlyweds, chastising Ståle for never coming out with them anymore and making fun of him for the way he keeps Sage to himself. Sage always offers to go out, but Ståle always waves them off, tells Sage that he'd rather spend time together, alone.

"We've got plans," Ståle raises his voice to be heard over their collective groans. Sven and Ulrik grab at one another and start grinding, letting out breathy, _Oh Ståle!_ and _Oh Sage-y_ 's that have Sage doubled over in laughter while he blushes. 

Chas walks over to them, eyebrows raised with a half-smile ghosting his face before he whistles, loud and sharp. "Reporters coming," he says, voice pitched low so that it doesn't carry back to the camera crew trailing after him. 

Sage steps back, doing his best to make sure that he isn't in the shot. It's obvious that they want to talk to Mark, Chas, and Ståle, the top three, respectively. Usually it's Mark who hangs out with Sage when Ståle's pulled away for an interview, but obviously that can't happen now. 

Sage just sort of lurks around the perimeter, tapping around on his phone and hoping that nobody asks him who he is or why he's here. 

They already had a close call in October during Freeze, when one of the British journalists skulking around had asked Sage what his relationship to Ståle was, mentioned that she'd noticed Sage around at the last couple of tournaments. Sage had clammed up, unsure of what to say. He could tell that she wasn't expecting anything scandalous, probably thought he was another one of Ståle's crew, a PT, maybe, or even somebody like Olav, especially since Sage has started taking pictures; someone who Ståle was friends with as a kid and brought along with him once he finally made it big. 

Fucking Max Parrot of all people had come over to rescue Sage, told her that Ståle didn't have dibs on Sage, helped Sage laugh the whole thing off and got him the hell out of there. They had never really spoken before and they hadn't spoken since, the only real words they'd ever exchanged on that day with Max clapped Sage on the back and told him that snowboarders were a family and that he'd always have his and Ståle's back.

He'd recounted the entire thing to Ståle later that night, watched the way Ståle frowned and seemed to draw into himself. A few days later Ståle placed 20th. 

Sage still doesn't know how to talk to him about it, doesn't know what Ståle might want to do. Sage is afraid, too, after all. Would Ståle coming out be worth all the bullshit that comes with it? Would he be okay with Ståle straight up telling him that he wants to stay in the closet for a while longer? Forever? Whenever Sage gets up the nerve to ask he thinks about Ståle turning the question around on him, asking Sage what _he_ wants, and he doesn't know the answer to that, so he doesn't ask at all. 

Torstein slides over and breaks Sage from his brooding. He stays the entire time that Ståle is interviewed, the he and Sage sitting in the snow, Tors teaching him Norwegian swear words and laughing at Sage's pronunciation.

↓

"Why are we moving to a different hotel?" Sage asks, hoping to bring Ståle out of his self-imposed silence.

"Figured we may as well get a head start on CGP," Ståle tells him, looking down at something at his phone.

"Wait, we aren't going home for Christmas and stuff?" This is the first Sage has ever heard of it. "Copper doesn't start until, like, the first week of January." 

Ståle glances up and smirks at him before looking back to his phone. Sage frowns and tries to grab it from his hands, the two of them grappling in the backseat of the car Ståle rented for them — which Sage had _assumed_ was meant to drive them to the airport, but that plan was obviously a bust — their driver rolling his eyes and yelling at them to calm their asses down.

Sage drops back down into his seat and glares at Ståle, kicking at his thigh. "Is this your idea of a honeymoon? Staying in Bumfuck, Colorado until the next stop on the tour?"

"Remember that you said that," Ståle tells him.

↓

"Oh my god," Sage says, scrambling to unbuckle his seatbelt and climb out of the car at the same time. "Ståle this is the greatest thing ever." He may be shouting, but Sage thinks it's allowed. He's really fucking excited.

He gets free and propels himself straight out of the car, right into his dad's chest, the two of them wrapping their arms around each other. His mom hugs Ståle until Sage brings himself to let go of his dad so that he can give her a hug too, and then after that comes his siblings, both of his older brothers lifting him straight off the ground, his brothers pull the same routine with Ståle while his sister lets Sage pick her up and spin her around a few times. Sage hasn't seen any of them for six months and he's just now realizing how little video calls compare to the real thing, now that he's able to actually speak with them in person again, see their full range of movement and gestures as the speak. 

Sage watches as Blaze pulls Ståle into a hug, practically strangling him, and he manages to catch Ståle's gaze over his brothers head. He beams at Ståle, and Ståle beams right back.

↓

Things with his parents are weird at first, but Sage understands. He isn't their little boy anymore. He's like a whole new person: married and living halfway around the world, except for when he's jet-setting around the globe so he can support his husband while he competes — competitively.

It's a lot, and sometimes it gets to Sage too, because he's come so far in such a short amount of time. But it's also amazing, and everything he's ever wanted and everything he's never known _to_ want, and he knows that shines through on his face, in the way he looks at Ståle.

His parents do their best to talk to them like Sage and Ståle their equals, but his dad has confided in him that them being eighteen has them unsure of what to do. Sage doesn't care, is more concerned that things could become strained or awkward, and he tells his dad as much, and things feel a lot more natural after that. They treat Ståle more like he's Sage's boyfriend, rather than his husband, but they skipped that step, and Ståle says he doesn't mind, so it's fine.

His brothers welcome Ståle into the fold instantly, asking him about his career, sharing embarrassing stories about the shit they tricked Sage into doing and believing as a kid. Sage grins and bears it, doing his best to defend himself and set the record straight when they lie or exaggerate something, keeping quiet and taking his lumps when they aren't. 

He's glad to have his sister there with him to commiserate, but it isn't long before he realizes the reason she's quiet and polite around Ståle is because she actually has a crush on him. Sage can't tell if he's proud of his sisters taste or experiencing schadenfreude, gleefully awaiting the day that she gets over her infatuation and he can lord this over her.

↓

Sage grunts, rolling away from Ståle's arm, trying to get Ståle to stop shaking him. He's still halfway in his dream, a mishmash of colors and this warm feeling. Sage thinks he and Ståle may be mermen in it, or, like, octopus-men. It's awesome and he doesn't want to leave.

"C'mon, Sage, wake up. I can't wait anymore." Ståle whispers in his ear, running his hand up and down Sage's back. Sage cracks open one of his eyes, the only light in the room coming from the lamp Ståle's turned on over by his side of the bed, just enough for Sage to read the stupid, twee analog clock the hotel has on his bedside table. It's 12:30 in the middle of the night.

"It's fucking midnight; are you kidding me?" Sage groans. He rolls onto his back and rubs at his eyes, pressing hard enough that he can see a burst of colors from behind his eyelids. 

"It's Christmas," Ståle corrects, sounding giddy.

"I want a divorce." Sage means it, except for how he totally doesn't. He pushes his pillow back and sits up, leaning against the bed's backboard. He goes to push his hair out of his face, but then he remembers that Ståle braided his bangs back last night and it looks like they held up, because he can actually blink and smack his lips without being attacked by a stray strand. It goes a long way towards making him feel more charitable towards his husband. "Okay, I'm awake. What do you want?"

Ståle springs off the bed and heads straight for the suitcase they'd decided to keep their collective of presents in, both of them swearing that they wouldn't peak. He hefts it up onto the bed in front of Sage and the climbs back underneath the covers. 

"You go first," Ståle tells him.

"Nope, nope, nope," Sage says, unzipping the thing and rooting around until he finds two small boxes, just like he figured he would. "I know we both got at least one of the same thing, and I'm not gonna wait any longer to fucking open mine. We do this shit together." 

He tosses the box he bought at Ståle, already getting to work at tearing his open. 

The ring Ståle bought for him is gorgeous: thick in height, thin in width, matte gold, solid; with a thin wave cut into it, crests and troughs bouncing around its center in a thin, continuous precise line. It looks like a slope. Sage fucking loves it and he sort of wants to cry, which is stupid because they've been married for nearly six whole months now — and their six month anniversary isn't even for a few more days — so a ring shouldn't make any more or less difference, but seeing the ring that Ståle picked out for him, it hits really hard, and he has to blink back tears. When he looks up he sees that Ståle already has his ring on, a blessing in disguise that helps him move past probably-maybe-gonna-cry in an instant, heading full-force into pissed territory.

"What the hell? I'm support to put that on you, you asshole." He reaches to tug the ring off of Ståle's finger, but Ståle slaps his hand away, cradling his hand to his chest.

The ring Sage bought for him is solid wood, from a juniper tree, because buying a ring and making sure that it was the most perfect and Ståle-like thing he could think of was really fucking important to Sage, so for the first time in his life he actually did research willingly, googling tree meanings and picking out the one that would give their marriage the best chance. It looks amazing against his skin, perfect where it sits amongst Ståle's long fingers.

"It's already on! I'm never taking it off again. You had your chance and you blew it." Ståle looks really smug, so Sage punches him in the arm just to make sure that Ståle doesn't think he's won. 

"Fine, whatever. I wanna at least do mine right. Slip it on me," Sage tells him, tossing the ring at Ståle and sticking out his hand. Ståle catches it and scoots forward in one fluid motion, slipping it onto Sage's finger and leaning in for a kiss all at once. Sage kisses him back, threads their fingers together while they make out, tapping his ring against Ståle's and listening to the little noise the metal makes when it taps against the wood. He know's that he's smiling like a total dork, but he can feel Ståle's smile against his own, so it's okay.

"Come on and open your other gifts," Ståle tells him, pulling back and gesturing at the still-open suitcase in front of them. Sage levels him with a look.

"I'm only gonna open one more and then that's it. I don't want my parents to think we're assholes who fail at being married and holidays because we show up with gifts for them but none from you-to-me or me-to-you." Sage roots around and grabs one of the bigger boxes, pulling it out and setting it beside him before zipping up the bag and setting it on the floor, laughing at the dramatic groan Ståle lets out.

Sage rips into it and then freezes when he sees the box because it's — it's a _really_ nice camera, one of the expensive Canon ones that all the pro photographers carry around on the tour.

"I, um, hope you like it? I asked Olav to help me pick it out. I would have asked Frode but he can't keep a secret for shit," Ståle rambles. "I asked him which one is good for beginners, while still being good? It's digital, obviously, so it's not like you have to learn how to develop film. But you still get the benefit of changing out lenses and stuff?" Ståle's voice is wavering. Sage looks up from the camera and sees that Ståle looks like he might cry — which is so crazy, because Sage is the one who feels like he's threatening to break down again — obviously unsure of himself and of Sage's reaction. "Do you, um, do you like it?" It looks like it pains him to ask.

Sage sets the box down gently and then pulls Ståle over so that he's sitting in Sage's lap, staring down at him. Sage kisses him as deep as he can, licking up into Ståle's mouth.

"Hey," Sage says, gazing up into Ståle's eyes. "I love you." It's the first time either of them has said it, Sage sure of his feelings since Ståle and his family hosted Thanksgiving back in November for him just so he'd feel more at home, but he was actually saying it for their six month anniversary, but he can't keep it inside himself anymore. 

He has to tell Ståle that he loves him because he never wants Ståle to look like this again, unsure of himself and of what Sage thinks. He'll love anything Ståle ever does or gives him, just because it's something Ståle gave him. The fact that it's an awesome gift just makes it that much more better.

"I—I love you too," Ståle stutters, and then the tears start falling, followed by hiccups that just won't stop, even though Ståle only actually cried about six big fat drops with of tears before his eyes dried up. It's really cute, and Sage tells him as much. 

"I feel really dumb," Ståle confesses, dutifully swallowing down gulps of water while Sage keeps a firm grip on his upper body, helping to hold him upside down over the side of the bed.

* * *

January is a rough month.

Sage's parents stick decide to stick around and support Ståle throughout the Sprint Grand Prix, so Sage has to explain to them that they shouldn't mention his and Ståle's marriage out in the ope,n just in case the press overhear. They're really good sports about it, don't even bat an eye, but Ståle's silent for the rest of the night, and then he places 79th on the Halfpipe. 

"It's not even your main event. Like, who cares? It as fun to just try, right?" Sage says to console him. Ståle nods, keeps quiet. 

Sage thinks that's the end of it, but then a few days later Ståle places 13th at Slopestyle, which is insane. All the other boarders give Ståle a wide breadth afterwards, even Mark, who place 15th himself, so it isn't as if Ståle's alone in finishing below expectation. 

"It was a weird ass meet, bro," Jeremy tells him and Ståle as they say goodbye to Sage's family at the airport, sending them back to Utah while he and Ståle get ready to board a quick flight to Aspen for the X-Games. 

"Fucking Colorado," Blaze agrees, hugging Sage one final time before they're gone.

In Aspen Ståle places 11th on Slopestyle, and if Sage wasn't worried before he seriously is now. Ståle needs to start racking points up if he wants to qualify for the Olympics next year. Norway only has four spots for Slopestyle, and Ståle isn't guaranteed one based on his reputation alone. 

He gets 3rd on Big Air. Sage is so, so grateful, even if it isn't Ståle's main event, because for the first time since the mini-holiday break ended Ståle looks happy, like himself again. He starts laughing more, joking around with his friends and goes back to trying to talk Sage into giving him a handjobs in public on the flight over to Austria, where he only competes in Big Air, and places 5th, and seems so, so relaxed the entire time.

* * *

Sage gets better at photography.

Olav shows him how he can take pictures with his camera and then transfer them onto his phone for editing, the best way to get high quality looking instagram photos, he says. Sage starts getting really great shots that the press never manage, has unlimited access that he would never abuse, as well as the trust that goes along with it. He sells a couple pictures to Snowboard Magazine and ESPN and feels really good about it, but that doesn't compare to the high he gets when Ståle calls up their parents — both sets — and brags about Sage's latest accomplishment to them. 

For the most part Sage is happy to build up his own little instagram army as he hones his skills, but Ståle's pride for him starts sneaking its way into his psyche, and before Sage knows it, he's really proud of himself too.

* * *

March feels like a cruel joke, someone fucking with them. After his fifth place finish in Austria, Ståle places 19th, 12th, and 21st in Big Air and goes 5th, 12th, 2nd, 19th, and 8the in Slopestyle.

Placing 21st at the Arctic Challenge was the hardest one for Ståle to swallow and Sage doesn't blame him for it, knows how badly Ståle wanted to break free of whatever funk he's been in at home, the damn thing practically behind held in his back yard. None of the Norwegian riders had done very well, Roger being the highest at 18th place. 

Ståle's whole family attended it, even Nina, cheering him on, Sage standing a row ahead of them so it wasn't too conspicuous just in case the cameras panned to the Sandbechs. Ståle looked right at Sage before he went to take his last run of the finals, and Sage had waved at him, feeling proud. Ståle hadn't waved back, and then he's failed his run so badly that he didn't make the top twenty. 

The only saving grace is that the 2nd place finish came at an FIS worlds, so it did wonders to boost up Ståle in the Olympic qualifications race he's in, everyone scrambling for any points they can get. 

They're not bad finishes, competition getting stiff as guys try to prove themselves worthy and claw into a spot on their national team, anything in the top twenty is something to be proud of, especially with the way everything is packed so tight together, everybody hopping onto one cross-atlantic flight to another, riding through aches and pains, keeping their eye on the prize, the end game that they're all striving for come February: Olympic gold. Ståle has nothing to be ashamed of, and it's not as if his sponsors are pressuring him to step up his game. He's qualified for the Olympic team, and that's all that matters going into next season.

Sage tells him all of this, but Ståle doesn't ever speak to him about it, just nods, puts up the pretense of listening to Sage as he speaks and then leaves the room as soon as Sage finishes. They don't have fights about it, if only because Ståle clams up as soon as Sage brings anything about his riding up. It takes two people to argue. 

Sage knows that Ståle is disappointed in himself, believes that he can do better. There's nothing Sage can do to help Ståle finish in a position that he'll be happy with, so the only thing he can do is make sure that everything outside of snowboarding is going okay in Ståle's life.

Still, he's never been happier to say goodbye to the season as March finally comes to an end.

↓

They get home and sleep for a week straight after the X Games, only leaving the bed to use the restroom, taking turns to see who'd answer the door and pay for whatever takeout they ordered, too drained to even have real sex, resorting to lazy jerk off sessions where they would kiss until they came or passed out, whichever happened first.

↓

"What do you wanna do this summer?" Ståle asks. He's braiding Sage's hair again, this time in neat little rows along the side so that it's pressed tight against his scalp. It makes him feel like a Viking. Ståle's been trying to talk Sage into getting an undercut and growing out his beard, and this is the first time he's started to consider it. He feels pretty badass, but he knows that even a beard isn't going to be enough to stop his brothers and Frode from mocking he and Ståle for having matching haircuts.

"I dunno," Sage answers. He hasn't really thought about _doing_ anything.

"We've been doing everything I wanted to do since you first got here," Ståle explains. "I wanna do shit you wanna do now."

"What? Okay, firstly," Sage says, twisting around so that he can look Ståle in the eye as he speaks, ignoring Ståle's protests when he ruins the braid Ståle had been working by pulling away. "It wasn't ' _stuff you wanted to do_ ', it was your job! And I told you I wanted to come along and stay with you rather than stay here and wait for whenever you could fly back.

"Secondly, I don't wanna do shit, man," Sage feels like he ended a little weak after his mini-speech lead-up, but it's true, because he doesn't want to do anything. He always imagined living out of hotel rooms would be awesome, but it's actually just really fucking tiring.

Ståle shoves at his shoulders until Sage turns around again, gets back to braiding Sage's hair, redoing the one that Sage fucked up.

"We don't get to be a couple during the season, though," Ståle says. Sage's body tenses up, because what the fuck? He starts to turn around again but Ståle grips his shoulder, hard, keeping his body facing forward. "I want to travel the world and kiss you outside, and hold your hand, and tell people that we're a few months away from out one year wedding anniversary."

Sage listens to everything Ståle has to say, stays quiet until he stops speaking. He knows that this is part of what's fucking up the way Ståle's been competing at events, because he's always flawless during practice and great during heats, but then once reality sets in during the final runs he always psychs himself out and fucks up. It's what Ståle has refused to speak with him about over the past few months, and Sage wants to do his best to be serious, to really hear Ståle's concerns.

"We _are_ a couple during the season, though, man. We're a couple _forever_. We're married, and not even in the kept-a-secret-boyfriend-for-years-and-then-tied-the-knot-on-the-downlowski kind of way, but in the completely less sketchy way that involved being married by a sketchy-ass website before we even met." Ståle laughs, and it sounds wet, which probably means that he's crying a little bit, hiccups on the horizon.

"We wear wedding rings and stay in the same hotel room and honestly, it's other people's fault for not realizing? Like, your publicist has always told people not to ask the " _Are you seeing anyone?_ " bullshit-filler-question, but if they did you'd totally tell them that you're married, so you aren't even lying by omission."

"I guess," Ståle says around his hiccups. Sage loves him, like, a lot. "But what if our marriage works best when we're, like, not constantly just being domestic and stuck around one another?"

"Then I'll just walk around naked all the time so that you cant focus on how much you hate being stuck around me all the time, you dick."

↓

Turns out they're really great at just living together, at being married. After all the not-fighting they'd been doing, Sage had worried that maybe that was just how it would be between them, but it isn't.

They argue and yell and wrestle over the things they disagree over, and they disagree over a lot of shit. But, even when they're mad, they like to stay around one another, never need space to cool off because they can get their over their fights — be they petty, serious, anything in between — while sitting side-by-side on the couch in silence just as easily as they can if one of them stormed out of the house, so there's no point in being dramatic and lonely just for drama and solitudes sake.

↓

They get bored of being domestic in the middle of May. Sage feels that Ståle is far, far too smug when he books them a pair of tickets to California.

"I'm just an active person," Sage argues. 

"Yeah, man, sure," Ståle answers in his most obnoxious fucking tone of voice. 

Sage wants a divorce. Having a know-it-all spouse totally has to be solid grounds for annulment.

↓

Sage alternates between tanning himself and treading water while Ståle surfs. Whenever there's a long lull in between waves Ståle paddles back to shore and talks Sage into getting up on the board with him, even though every time Sage tells him that he won't, that it'll be the last time he'll let himself be talked into it. It never is.

Mid-afternoon has his knee aching, but it's a good ache, means that he did things he usually doesn't allow himself to do, that he had fun. It's around that time that Ståle rejoins him on their blanket, stretching his body out and doing his best to hog most of it, air drying himself in the sun's rays. 

Sage really, really wants to shove a fistful of sand into Ståle's mouth in retaliation, but he decides to be a good husband and lets Ståle do as he pleases. Instead he cuddles up to Ståle's side and lets some of the extra heat his body's absorbed from the sun seep into Ståle's ocean-chilled skin. 

Ståle eventually climbs on top of Sage so that he's using Sage's body as his own personal bed, crosses his arms overtop Sage's chest and then rests his chin on them. He looks really relaxed, happy, proud, all the things that were lacking throughout the past season. Seeing Ståle happy makes Sage happy, so he smiles at him, wide and bright. Ståle smiles back and leans forward to kiss Sage, rests their foreheads together when he's had his fill.

↓

Sage plugs their phones in when they get back to the house they're renting. Ståle got a little camera-happy in bed that morning, and then again when they first arrived at the beach — even though Sage brought his actual camera so that they could get some good, lasting photos on this trip — and as a result Ståle ran through both their batteries before noon, leaving them incommunicado for the rest of the day. It's not even eight o'clock in the evening yet, Sage is sure they haven't missed all that much.

He's wrong.

↓

Ståle flops back onto their bed, finally ending a two hour conversation he'd been having with his agent.

"So, I'm 100% completely out now," Ståle says. He doesn't sound upset about it. Sage still isn't sure if he himself is upset or not.

"Like, how?" Sage asks, because he still doesn't understand what in the hell happened between noon and now.

"Some surfer kids were my fans? And they spotted me and waited for me to hit the shore again before asking for an autograph, but then, like, I went straight to you and we started making out and stuff, and they thought it was cute and took some pictures and posted them to twitter and it sort of blew up from there once the press found it," Ståle explains.

"Wait — so how did the press find it?" Sage sometimes misses tweets that his actual friends directly @-towards him. Maybe the one good thing that can come out of this invasion of privacy will be him learning some behind the scenes twitter shit.

"Who knows," Ståle sighs, patting the spot next to him. Sage goes and lays down beside him, buries his face in Ståle's chest so that he can feel the reverberations when Ståle speaks. "Some jerk probably linked it to them. I don't really care. I'm just happy."

Sage understands what Ståle means. It's not like he's the first pro snowboarder who's gay, — just the second ever, which is still a lot and counts for something, Sage thinks — and everybody with eyes and ears on the circuit know that Ståle's gay anyway. The only legitimate thing Ståle has to worry about would be his sponsors, but all four of them already know and are fine with it. Fans are the one true unknown variable, but while Sage knows that some will jump ship, a shitton more will climb aboard. It's pretty cool to think about all the gay people who might realize they love snowboarding thanks to Ståle and their decision to start following the sport to support him.

"You told them that you're gay _and married_ , yeah?" Sage stresses.

"I specifically said that I was married to a Sage Kotsenburg-Sandbech, and that means that I'm even more gay than I'd been when I was single and gay, because I now put a ring on it," Ståle agrees.

"Okay good," Sage says, pressing his smile into Ståle's chest in an attempt to hide it. "Still, we're gonna get so many offers for threesomes."

* * *

Sage sits by Ståle's side during the press conference they give. He doesn't have to say anything because sports magazines don't really give a shit about him, which is fine. All the questions they lob are Ståle are easy, not because of the content or anything, but because Ståle has nothing to lie or feel ashamed about, so he gets through them pretty quick.

After that they go straight to a cafe to meet up with a journalist for this gay magazine and suddenly Sage realizes that gay magazines care about him, like, a lot. He asks Ståle about being gay and a professional athlete, but when it becomes clear that his gayness is pretty much a non-issue in his line of work, the reporter switches over to Sage, and from that point on the direction article is set. 

They lie about how they met. Sage is pretty sure that the website that married them is running along the thinnest line of legality, and even if their marriage license is totally legit and valid, Sage doesn't want to rock that boat. Besides, their parents are still mortified that they met the way they did, even if it worked out perfectly. Instead, Sage talks about meeting Ståle through Omegle in 2009 and their relationship carrying on from there, about the first time they met in real life, when Ståle came to visit him after the Olympics, where they shared their first kiss, and then a few more years of online dating before Sage graduated high school and could finally move to be with his soon-to-be husband. It's all very Disney and high school sweethearts.

The reporter guy basically coos at them the entire interview, and when they're shaking hands at the end of it he tells them, "You guys are going to have every teenager trolling chatrooms again, hoping to find their future hot, European husband. Hell, you've got me considering it."

* * *

For Ståle's nineteenth birthday, Sage gifts himself to Ståle as his present. "Do whatever you want with me," Sage tells him. He means it.

Ståle starts the day off by stripping the both of them naked and leading Sage out onto the couch. He has Sage sit at his feet, Ståle sitting right at the edge of the couch so that half of his ass hangs over the cushion. Sage sucks Ståle's dick until it gets hard and then keeps it in his mouth for an entire episode of Deadliest Catch dubbed over in Norwegian, commercials and all, no breaks. He's only allowed to suck, no moving his tongue, or jaw, or head. He manages to make Ståle come three times that way before the hour is up. By the end of it his jaw is absolutely aching and his lips feel too-wet and chapped at the same time. It's magnificent, and the day only gets better from there.

* * *

Norwegian Championships are held three days after Ståle's birthday. It'll be the first event he's competing in since coming out publicly, and the only one he's got lined up until the season really starts in August. The local media always covers it pretty well, but there are way, way more international cameras there than usually.

Ståle makes sure that their trip to Norway was worth it by kissing and touching Sage at every opportunity given to him, takes Sage out to lunch instead of eating at the hotel room like they both prefer to do, just so that they can snap some pictures of the two of them being cute and feeding one another.

He comes in 2nd just behind Braaten, but you wouldn't be able to tell it from the look on his face as he stands on the second-highest podium, waving and blowing kisses in Sage's direction. 

It's new levels of embarrassing and Sage vows to get revenge on Ståle as soon as the opportunity presents itself.

* * *

On the 11th, Russia passes their anti-gay bill.

↓

Sage doesn't exactly understand Russia's anti-gay bill.

"So if we don't, like, talk to any kids, it'll be fine, right? Does that mean if they come up and ask for an autograph you have to pretend they don't exist, or is it like an Amber Alert-type restraining order thing where we have to hop around to make sure we're always ten feet from a kid? Are kids now hot lava?"

"I don't even understand what half of those words mean," Ståle tells him. "And I don't understand it either. The national team said that they would explain it to us later. All I did was ask them if you could still go, and they said yes."

* * *

For Sage's nineteenth birthday, Ståle returns the favor and gives himself to Sage as a present.

Sage learned from his experience on Ståle's birthday, picked up on all the tricks to what makes this good, what can make it unbearable, what can make you so strung out that you don't know which is which. 

He sets up his camera in the living room and has Ståle sit on his dick while they watch a Planet Earth marathon, prohibits him from moving in any way. Ståle's already trembling by the time that their thighs touch, fully seated in Sage's lap.

"You're just keeping me warm," Sage tells him, wrapping his arms around Ståle's middle and pulls him back against his chest, causing him to moan at how Sage's dick shifts in him ever so slightly at the movement, but not enough for it to really count in away way that matters. 

Whenever it gets to a boring part, Sage reaches down and starts to pull at Ståle's dick, working it in his hand until Ståle comes and then Sage abruptly lets go, not bothering to help work him through it. A couple times he has to grab Ståle's hands and pin them to his thighs, but other than that he does just as Sage asks of him, stays still and keeps Sage's dick warm.

At the end of the first episode he's made Ståle come three times and he's come inside of Ståle twice, just from the way his ass clenched around his dick. 

Sage feeds Ståle a bottle of water and then starts the next episode, tells Ståle to jerk him off for an hour. After that it's another bottle of water and a quick shower for Sage and then they're back at it again, another episode and this time Ståle has to keep him in his mouth for an hour. The entire time he keeps up a steady stream of words, compliments Ståle on how good he's being for the camera, tells him that the next time he's horny but feels to lazy to fuck Ståle that he'll load this video up and jack off to it, to the sight of Ståle doing only what Sage asked of him and nothing more. 

By the end of it Sage's dick fucking aches and his voice is raw, his body forced to go where he'd thought only his mind had the willingness to achieve during his last three orgasms. Ståle is blissed out, sprawled across the couch with his head pillowed in Sage's lap, making pathetic noises and doing his best to keep his body completely still. Sage pets at his hair, shushes him when it looks like he's going to wake up from whatever dozing state he's slipped into. The part of him that always wants to take care of Ståle more than anything else is out in full force during times like this. 

Then Ståle tilts his head down and sucks a kiss onto the head of Sage's dick. Sage feels like he's been kicked in the balls by someone wearing steel toed fucking boots. 

He shoves Ståle's unappreciative ass right onto the floor and curls up into his own little protective ball on the couch.

* * *

For their wedding anniversary they both agree that all weird sex celebrations are off the table. They're still recovering from Sage's birthday a few days ago, and Sage still isn't sure that he trusts Ståle with his dick again so soon.

They decide to be classy and take each other out on a twenty-four hour long date, waking up at midnight and doing every romantic thing they can think of until 11:59 PM that night.

Ståle's parents have them over for brunch the next day and they recount the entire day for them. Sage smiles like an idiot when says which bits were his ideas and which came from Ståle.

* * *

The rest of the season goes by far quicker than it did the year before, which Sage attributes to Ståle being a million times happier and because everything is a million times more hectic as they Olympics get closer and closer.

Ståle's increased happiness shows in the standings, some of the other guys saying that they're going to marry a dude and come out if that's what it takes to unlock whatever cheat codes Ståle's running off of. Mark straight-up says that he's going to make Sage be his husband, Ståle playing along and acting as if he doesn't care right up into the point Mark leans in for a kiss. Ståle dives between him and Mark like a secret service agent about to take a bullet intended for the president.

Of the seven tournaments Ståle enters, he manages to place 1st at two of them — the first at High Fives, a complete change from his result in 2012, and Sage is just as proud of him, is more proud, but this time Ståle finally believes him when he says it; the second 1st place finish he has is at the U.S. Snowboarding Grand Prix, where he kisses Sage once he hops down off the podium, makes Sage feel like he did when he first got the email from their marriage website, telling him that they found his perfect match; like he's on the verge of fucking _exploding_.

They end the year the same way it started, in fucking Colorado. Copper Mountain marks the start of the holiday break, Ståle's riding high off his 1st place finish. It was nearly a Norwegian sweep between him, Torstein, and Emil, but Shaun White pulled a Shaun White and managed to steal third place away.

They rent a car and take a mini-road trip up to Aspen where both sets of parents waiting for them at their hotel. Their parents had wanted to meet and this seemed like best time and way to arrange it while the season was still going on, Sage's siblings left back home this time around.

* * *

Ståle places 3rd, twice, at the X-Games, in both Big Air and Slope Style. It's his final stop before the Olympics and they hop on a plane back home to Norway as soon as Ståle does his last piece of press, rushing pack for Sochi weather and to get their final briefing on the anti-gay situation. It makes Sage feel like a spy.

Ståle's less concerned about himself and is more into speaking about what measures are in place to keep Sage and his family safe. Sage is more invested in Ståle's safety. It's a bit of a stalemate they've been having over the last couple months, one that's slowly become a _thing_ between them.

* * *

Sage is slightly disappointed when there aren't protesters waiting to claw at them the moment they make their way through customs. They national team told them there probably wouldn't be, but Sage had mentally prepped himself to such a degree that it's a let down when he doesn't have to use any of the Russian curse words he taught himself over the months leading up to this.

Ståle holds Sage's hand and escorts him and the Sandbech's to their hotel, hugging them extra tight before he goes to check in at the Olympic village. 

"You can come in our room if you like, Sage," Ståle's dad offers. His and his wife's English have gotten much more fluent since the first time they met Sage. Frode's told him that they've been listening to audiobooks and reading textbooks to speed the process up, and he'd been grateful then, but he really feels it now, that gratitude bubbling up for these two people that he loves nearly as much as his own parents.

"Naw, I'm good. Probably gonna nap," Sage says. He hugs them even tighter than Ståle had and they split up into their separate rooms.

↓

Sage was fully prepared to worry over the political climate. There are only eight out athletes competing this year, and Ståle's the only guy, and Sage knows that the homophobes in this country are way more likely to go after a dude if they wanted to send a message. Everyone has assured him that Ståle will be okay, and at this point it's all out of his hands and he just has to trust the security at the Village and on the slopes to keep him safe. Ståle made him promise after to look after himself and their families so that Ståle can just focus on winning a damn metal and then getting them the hell out of dodge, so that's what Sage tells himself that he's gonna do.

Nobody told him that he was going to have to stress over the fucking Slopestyle course too. It's not just Ståle that Sage is worried for, either. Mark broke his fucking ribs at the X-Games and for some reason he's still out there balancing his pasty white ass on his board, taking each little wipe-out worse than the last because Canada somehow talking him into thinking that he doesn't have at least two more Olympic runs in him. 

Each morning leading up to qualifications has Sage waking up with a sense of dread, pulling up whatever new quotes the riders have been saying about just how sketchy the fucking slopes are. 

"They're not even that bad," Ståle tells him. Qualifications are the next day and Sage knows he won't be getting a wink of sleep. 

"Would let you me board on it?" Sage demands. "Or Blaze? Jeremy? Kirra?" Ståle doesn't say anything, keeps quiet, and that's answer enough. Sage groans into the speaker of his phone.

"Can't you at least lie to me? I'm fucking dying here!"

"You know I can't lie to you," Ståle whines. "That's why I just shut up and don't say shit."

"Don't fucking talk to me," Sage snaps, then says, "Ståle please don't die. I'm too young to be a windower and I don't even think you have a will."

"I'm not going to die," Ståle laughs. Sage wants to snap at him again, tell him that it isn't fucking funny, but he misses hearing Ståle's laugh, and he gets caught up in it, lets it replace the stress and anger in his bones. "This isn't my first Olympics."

"Yeah, well," Sage mumbles, finally starting to feel sleepy as he burrows deeper under the covers of his bed. He's got one pillow wedged between his legs, another pressed tight against his back, and a third with his arms wrapped around it, cuddling it close to his chest. "This time you better bring home a medal. I want gold, baby."

"I'll get it for you, Sage. I promise."

↓

Qualifications go from okay to fucking amazing. Ståle's ranked first in his heat and on the first run he manages a 45.25, putting him ninth. His second run goes perfectly, Ståle used to the tackiness of the snow, so this time around as he nets himself a 94.50, putting him in first, guaranteeing him a spot in the Final and saving him from having to duel it out in the Semis.

The night prior Sage's family and Ståle's siblings had finally showed up, enabling them to create a giant Kotsenburg-Sandbech cheering section for Ståle; Sage and Frode cheering on the rest of their friends when they take their own heats.. 

Ståle rushes towards the barriers after Qualifications are done, slightly out of sight from the cameras because nobody seems to be sure just how much gay is _too_ much. Sage meets him there and hugs him over the partition. "Hey! I'm so proud of you."

"I haven't won anything yet," Ståle tells him. Sage double checks who's around them and then leans in to press a kiss to Ståle's lips, keeping it chaste because Sage seriously does not want to watch his husband's potential gold medal run from a Russian prison.

"You will. "

↓

Ståle does.

Sage cheers his fucking head off, causes so much of a ruckus that he's shocked security doesn't kick him out. It's not just Ståle that he's proud of — even though Ståle winning the first ever men's Slopestyle gold in this history of the Olympic Games is, like, 99.99% of what's making him lose his shit — but it's also that Mark got silver, and Sven beat out Max to steal bronze. It's all so amazing, and Sage is so proud of his friends, and Sage isn't crying, but he has seemed to developed Ståle's penchant for hiccups when he's under extreme emotional duress, which is alarming. 

NBC must have pulled out the bribe of all bribes, because one of the security patrol-bro's lets Sage rush to the squishy partition where Ståle and Mark and Sven are still celebrating, waving their flags around like maniacs. There's a cameraman halfway up Sage's ass, he's following him so close, but Sage ignores it, resigns himself to helping NBC stir up controversy if it means that he can have this moment with Ståle. 

"I want my medal!" Sage shouts. Ståle's head pops up and a smile breaks out across his face, his arms shooting out to grab Sage and pull their bodies together.

"I haven't even gotten it yet!" Ståle yells back, just as loud. Their noses brush and then they're kissing, as easy as breathing. 

"Oh my god, Sage," Mark says in a rush, voice breathless and coming from Sage's left. Sage feels himself being tugged out of Ståle's arms, sure as anything that one of the real, non-bribed security personnel is going to lock his ass up for kissing in front of god and country and impressionable little Russian youths. 

What he isn't expecting is for Mark to press their lips together, to kiss him. Sage keeps his eyes open, flicking his gaze over to Ståle, who looks as confused as Sage feels. Mark pulls back after a few beats and laughs, loud and bright. Sage only has a few seconds to wonder what the fuck just happened before Sven is pulling him even more to the left so that he can kiss Sage too. 

Just as quickly as the kisses started, they're over, Sage being yanked to the right this time. He's sure that this is actually the time somebody has come to cart him away for actually turning straight dudes gay. That, or this has all been some crazy dream that's sole purpose is meant to inform him that he apparently has secret fantasies about kissing Mark and Sven under threat of imprisonment. 

Sage is wrong _again_ ; it's just Ståle pulling him back and yanking Sage's head into his chest, looking at Mark and Sven like they've lost their minds, which, they well could have. It forces Sage to contort his body in an awkward angle, half laying on the partition with the rest of his lower body slumped into the snow. 

"What the fuck?" Ståle whispers. If looks could kill both Mark and Sven would be dead and buried by now. It has Sage laughing, even if he's just as confused. The whole ordeal lasted about ten-seconds at most, Sage isn't even sure if the cameras managed to catch it. Maybe he blacked out while kissing Ståle and imagined the whole thing.

"Everybody made a pact that if you got to kiss Sage, then we would all kiss him," Mark tells them, looking far too pleased with himself, even if he did just win a fucking silver medal at the Olympics. There's no doubt in Sage's mind that Mark was the one to come up with this plan and sold it to the rest of the Slopestyle crew. 

"I'm the real gold medal," Sage concludes. Ståle tightens his arms around his neck, cutting of some of Sage's airflow.

"Alright guys, it's time for the flower ceremony," one of the volunteers interrupts, pointing out to where the three of them need to line up.

Ståle releases his stranglehold and wraps his arms around Sage's shoulders instead, one last victory hug before he's crowned a medal-winning Olympian for good. "At the medal ceremony I'm gonna chuck that bitch right at your face as soon as the cameras turn off, so be ready, okay?"

Sage shoves Ståle towards where Sven and Mark are waiting for him, impatiently hopping from one foot to another, waving their respective flags at the crowed as they wait for the presenters to finish with the mic checks.

"Can't wait."

**Author's Note:**

> yay for summer fic exchanges! really hope you enjoy this, recip. i saw that you liked mail-order-spouse trope and aus wherein someone is still famous and the other is just a regular-joe and, well, here we are. this damn thing probably could have been way, way longer than it already is, so thank god for time constraints.


End file.
